The Lifestyle
by BlueBolt
Summary: AU - 1x2, 3x4, and lots of yaoi. The Gundam Boys all meet up at an 'adult' party, and are instantly drawn to each other. Each of them has a different reason to be there, but they'll all come together in the end. Birthday present for my friend Dani.


The Lifestyle

Inspired by the fanfiction Bacchanalia

Written as a birthday gift for my friend Dani

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Introduction

They called it "The Lifestyle." They were normal people, with normal lives, who came from a variety of ethnic backgrounds. Some were there for the thrill, others for the pleasure. Some were there to watch, others to participate. Some came to escape reality, and some came to face it. They all had one thing in common, though; sex. It was that thing that separated normal people, and that thing that brought them together. That's what The Lifestyle was about, after all. Or... was it?

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Chapter One

The music throbbed, pulsed, moving along with the racing heartbeats of the people in the house. In time with the beat, one young man's feet fell jovially on the plush red carpet, finding his way through the living room. A fire crackled in the hearth, and several people sat on couches around a low table, sipping wine and chatting idly. A few people waved to him, and he waved back, but didn't stop to join them. He had other things to do.

Duo Maxwell was a musician. Not well known, but making enough money to live on. Earlier that year he'd discovered his lover and fellow band-mate was going behind his back, chasing after some hot woman he met through his part-time job. Duo had been shattered, naturally. This was a man that had cried out his love for Duo in the dead of night, screaming his name in the throes of ecstasy.

Maxwell bit his lip, turning through a doorway to have his eardrums assaulted by the blaring music. The lights were dimmed, but he could make out the bodies dancing, throbbing with the song, and with each other. Everyone was accepted, young or old, gay or straight. That was just the way of The Lifestyle. He joined in absently, losing himself in the passion of skin against skin, hands on waist, sweat and breath in the air. This was his sanctuary... this was his escape.

He danced on for an hour, tirelessly, dancing away his fears and his problems. The drummer of his band was addicted to heroine. He'd been stealing money from the band and spending it on the shit. Duo knew, he knew too well. But he couldn't bring himself to stop him. He'd known that man since kindergarten. He was his friend, and friends didn't turn on each other. Friends weren't supposed to turn each other in to the police. He moved sinuously with other people, touching them, feeling their hands explore him. Some he knew from previous parties, some he didn't.

Finding no escape in repetition, the young man with the long braid left the throng of people after a while, and, spying a familiar face in a corner, made his way there. A young man was resting lazily in a beanbag, handsome white pants adorning his crossed legs, a bold purple dress shirt hanging onto his lean torso, looking soft and touchable in the glow of the lights. Maxwell reached out to run his nimble fingers along that smooth fabric, and indeed it was soft. The young blonde man made no motion to indicate the caressing of his shoulder displeased him; after all, touching was normal for The Lifestyle. Those that didn't like to be touched didn't attend these sorts of parties.

"Winner," The brunette singer purred, drawing a hand up to tousle his pale golden hair, "You still sitting alone, just watching? Kinky bastard." Maxwell winked, and the blonde, established to be 'Winner', smiled softly.

"You know I don't like to partake in these activities. I just like to watch." His light, innocent voice seemed highly unsuited to the environment, but Maxwell was unfazed.

"That's all good and well, but don't you get lonely? I saw a couple young ladies looking your way, if you wanted I could-"

"You know I'm not interested in women." Winner interrupted, though not unkindly. "Thanks for the effort, but I'm happy where I am." Maxwell started to open his mouth, "Really, I am."

"If you're sure. You know, I never have seen you do anything but sit there."

"Stop worrying about me. Go have your fun; I know _you_ aren't the type to sit back and watch." Winner persisted, and Maxwell gave in at last. Shrugging his shoulders, the young bohemian slipped from the room and went back the way he'd come in, intending to find a glass of wine and a warm seat next to a handsome man.

Quatre Winner was the CEO of his father's company. He had responsibilities, he had power, and he had money. If Winner had wanted a show, he could easily have hired a pair of professionals to observe in his own private quarters. He could have... but that wasn't what he was looking for. There was no emotion in that, and there wasn't any _real_ passion. It wasn't real; this was. The Lifestyle was how these people thrived, and it was all real to them. The emotions, the fervour, the heat! It was real.

There was no money involved here. It was just people out for fun. That's what he was here to see; the emotions, the people. Free of their daily jobs, of their working-world façade, this was their heaven. He didn't need to join in to feel it; he could feel their emotions. Resounding through him, the brush of lust and love and excitement, it was all there in such a degree. It was _his_ escape. His freedom. No more reports, no more files, no more money. Just pleasure, to the very tips of his toes and throughout his body, nothing but pleasure.

Winner didn't want to run a company. He didn't want to be a sought out bachelor because of his money or status. He wanted real people, not the blank faces of the people that worked for him, like so many blank sheets of paper filled with this and that that he had to sign and send to such a person before such a date and time. No, this wasn't paperwork. This was his little slice of reality.

The young blonde rose from his seat in the beanbag chair, a gurgle in the pit of his stomach drawing him towards the kitchen. There were other people there, eating, talking, touching. Quatre bit his lip, avoiding them. One of them might know who he was. They wouldn't think of him as Quatre. He was Mr. Winner, the billionaire. He didn't have a soul, oh no. What did a person need a soul for when they had money?

He forced himself to sit in a chair at the table, helping himself to some of the various snacks set out for the guests. Overlooking the main trays of food and going right to dessert, he found himself locking gaze with a young man he'd never seen before. Dark Prussian blue eyes looked into his soul, and his hand froze overtop a lemon meringue tart. He blinked, and the eyes were gone. The man had left. He frowned and went to close his fingers around the treat, only to find it was gone; he'd snatched his tart!

The dark stranger wandered down the hallway, ignoring the looks he was getting. He wasn't there to flaunt himself, nor was he there to sleep with the first person that glanced his way. Perhaps he wanted something special, perhaps he wanted some_body_ special. He wasn't sure why he was so convinced he'd find them there. Wandering into a room with a warm fire and several couches, he seated himself across from a trio of young men.

One of them was administering neck massages to the other, talking non-stop as he sensually rubbed the muscles of a fetching young man with short, brown hair. Yuy – for that was the name of our tart-thieving stranger – watched this going on with vague interest, his eyes on the chatting extrovert. Leather and buckles accentuated his naturally curvy body, cut short around the waist so that a long chestnut braid could tickle about an inch of bare skin along his back. Such bright violet eyes; he must have been wearing contacts.

"Hey," the young man crooned in Yuy's direction, catching his gaze, "You want a massage too? Only, you look a bit tense." The brunette that had been on the receiving end of the caress slipped an arm around the waist of the first man.

"He's really good at it, take my word," He said, running his fingers along that inch of revealed stomach. "Duo works wonders with those fingers of his." Catching an undertone of innuendo, the man with the braid wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"No thank you," Our dark stranger began to say, but Duo had already risen from his seat and sat down on the one with Yuy. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his thigh. Sensations flooded through the man with the Prussian blue eyes, and he turned away from this man, this Duo, so that his back was to him. Misinterpreting the gesture, Duo's hands slid up his back and began to knead the muscle and sinew there. Yuy melted.

The young woman moaned underneath of him, tossing back her head at each thrust, clutching at his sweaty shoulders and crying his name. Trowa, Trowa! It felt good, but it was never enough. He went a bit longer, then he finished off and was left with that same empty feeling, that same sense of loss he'd started out with. He was 'getting' lots... but he wasn't getting what he wanted. In an uncharacteristic display of unkindness, he got dressed and left the lady naked and panting in the bed. Trowa wound his way through the hallways of the large house, returning to the party downstairs to try and find whatever he was missing inside.

His mind trailed off as he walked, thinking about everything he'd come through to wind up here. Trowa had joined the army at the age of sixteen, even at that age searching for something inside of him that seemed to be missing. He'd faced death several times since then, but was temporarily settled down in the little town where the people were more than they first appeared. A friend had introduced Trowa to The Lifestyle, and that started his quest. The quest to find... well, he wasn't sure what he was trying to find.

Shaken out of his thoughts by bodies brushing against him, the young soldier found himself on the dance floor. Listlessly, he began moving with the beat, his leather pants hugging his thighs and leaving nothing to the imagination. A loose white cotton dress shirt draped about his shoulders, he looked great, and he knew it. This in mind, it came as no surprise to him when he felt a pair of eyes on his back. Turning to discover who it was, he found himself gazing into the deep blue eyes of a dashing young blonde. Trowa started to make his way over to him when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Might I have this dance?" Trowa looked back at the young Chinese man, taking in his appearance in a single gaze. Dark eyes, tanned skin, loose white clothing; he was damn attractive.

"You might." Trowa replied, dismissing the blonde for the moment and slipping his arms around the man's waist, moving with the loud, pumping beat. They moved fluidly together, swaying with the rest of the people like one giant being. To dance was to move... to move was... to live. Each step was a breath of air; every rub of flesh on flesh was a heartbeat. Life was just life... but this sort of life was better, richer, more essential. Sexuality hovered in the atmosphere, clung to every person there. The bitter musk of sweat and the sweet scent of wine and wax swirled together into one intoxicating concoction, swilling around the dancers and resting in the lungs of the more subdued.

Trowa swallowed heavily; the blonde was still watching him. Those eyes clung to his tall frame, following his smooth motions, beckoning him. Again, he started to head over to the blonde when his lips were arrested by those of the pretty oriental man; there was no way he was about to pull away from that. It looked like he was being smothered... but no, he was being swallowed. Wine was strong on this stranger's tongue, and Trowa could taste the saccharine rosé as though he was the one to drink it.

Their tongues rubbed, clashed, fought, and sang. Taking a deep swig of the forbidden alcohol know as another man, Trowa felt his senses dull and sharpen at the same time, as though he were drunk from illicit kisses. When at last they drew back to partake of air, the two men were breathless. There was no love, no spark of possible romance; but passion, lust, and a need for escape, for release. A hungry man will eat, as a horny man will fuck... and often, the only food available would simply have to do. Then, over the pulse of the music, a gentle, alluring voice tickled the inside of Trowa's ear.

"Excuse me..." The tall brunette turned to see who'd spoken to him; it was the blonde.

"Yes?" Trowa asked, his breath catching in his throat at the sheer beauty in this man that he'd failed to notice from a distance. The stranger opened his mouth to speak, and he was bumped by the people around him, moved closer to the person he was struggling to converse with.

"I was wondering if you'd like to leave this loud, hot room-" He began.

"To go somewhere else... alone?" Trowa asked coolly, if not a bit eagerly. His stranger's eyes widened a bit at the implications.

"Just to talk." He stated quickly, a slight blush coming to his cheeks. Trowa felt blood rush to his groin; this flaxen-haired foreigner was undeniably tempting without intending to be. Finding his Chinese kissing-partner had disappeared, he nodded to the offer and they left the room, Trowa slipping an arm around the waist of the person who's name he didn't even know.

They walked down a corridor and found themselves in a small sitting room decorated with scented candles and more throw pillows than was necessary. It was suited to their needs: it was vacant.

"So, now that we're alone... shall we... 'discuss'?" Trowa asked with a definite undertone, delighting in the knowledge that it made the other man quiver slightly.

"Ah... sure. Introductions first, perhaps? My name's Quatre."

"Pleasure to meet you, Quatre. I'm Trowa." He smiled genuinely as he said this, and Quatre couldn't help but see why he'd been so magnetically drawn to him. A shiver ran up his spine as Trowa's fingers settled on his hip, his thumb brushing bare skin. It was small, certainly, but to Quatre the emotions that surged through the small touch with incredible, powerful, overwhelming. Desire, curiosity, passion, patience; all in one rush, Trowa's sentiments towards him flooded Quatre's mind. Not only that, but a particular sensation... something he'd never felt before from touching other people. He needed more.

Trowa was surprised when out of the blue, the timid, innocent Quatre reached out and took his hand from where it rested on his own thigh and laced their fingers together.

"So, let's talk."

"Sure... what about?" Trowa asked, feeling a fluttering in his chest when their eyes met.

"Well, how about why we're here?"

"For sex, of course." He stated blandly, a bit surprised by the question. Quatre blushed yet again.

"Other than that. Everybody has his or her reasons... I'm curious about yours." The question was posed so disarmingly, Trowa felt himself opening up to this young man like he'd never done to anyone in his life.

"Well, I guess I'm... I'm looking for something." He paused in thought. "For... my soul-mate, I suppose. I know it must sound stupid," he added quickly, "to be looking in a place like this."

"It's not silly at all. I think it's kind of cute." Trowa flushed, biting his lower lip, and Quatre giggled, giving his hand a friendly squeeze. "That's cute, too." Suddenly, the cinnamon-haired man turned to Quatre, slipping his hand free and bringing it to cup his cheek. Startled, Quatre didn't move.

"_You're_ cute, you know that?" Reeling in emotions sent through the innocent touch, the blonde could only stare back, his breath catching in his lungs. "No... you're not cute, you're beautiful." Quatre found his voice, and choked out:

"Beautiful?" Trowa merely smiled in response, leaning back and easing an arm around his waist so that Quatre was pulled into his chest. The empath gasped softly, relishing this newfound way to dine on sensations and feelings. They stayed like that for a long time, one cradled in the arms of the other. After perhaps twenty minutes passed, Quatre tilted his head and planted a kiss on the underside of Trowa's chin. A wave of sensation passed through both of them, and Trowa inhaled sharply.

'Oh God... I have to stay in control of my feelings. I can't take advantage of this guy... I would end up hating myself afterwards. Control. I have to control myself, control my urges.'

Out loud, he said, "Would you like to get a drink with me?" Quatre's eyes lit up.

"Certainly." So the both of them went down to the lounge with the couches and the fireplace where glasses of red and white wine were in abundance.

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End Chapter One


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